Cousins
by TrailingJasmine
Summary: Monica Dawes is brought to Gotham by tragedy, but can she break through Bruce Wayne's self-constructed shell in a way her cousin Rachel never could? *contains Dark Knight spoilers*
1. Prologue: Twelve

_Late afternoon. I can feel the gravel through the thin soles of my shoes as I follow my cousin from the car toward the imposing manor house._

"_Who lives here again?" I ask, struggling to keep up with Rachel's longer legs. My glamorous older cousin is eighteen, and a good foot taller than me at twelve. _

"_Nobody but Alfred right now." I catch the sadness in her voice._

"_Alfred?"_

"_Mr Pennyworth to you. The butler. He's from London too, you know."_

_I digest this new snippet of information as we hurry around the well-tended flower beds towards the kitchens. Rachel knocks on the kitchen door, and a few moments later a beaming old man opens it._

"_Hello, Miss Dawes. Glad to see you. My goodness, you're more grown up and elegant every time I see you." His familiar accent, London laced with Cockney, is a shock to hear after a week of American twang._

"_Hello, Alfred," Rachel smiles. "I'm so sorry to bother you like this, but Mom simply had to check if that vase was here. I'm sure it smashed years ago, but you know she won't rest until she's checked everywhere." _

"_Absolutely," Alfred nods. "And who's this?" _

"_This is my cousin Monica, from England."_

"_Goodness me." He peers down at me. "Now there is somewhere I haven't been back to for a while. Where do you live?"_

"_London, in Primrose Hill," I answer shyly._

"_What a lovely part of the world. Are you over here for long?"_

"_She's leaving tomorrow," Rachel answers for me. "Her mom and mine are off seeing Great Aunt Helen, so we're having a day out. There's a busy day ahead…"_

"_And you'll not be wanting to delay your fun any longer than necessary," Alfred finishes her sentence. "You know where the attics are, Miss Dawes."_

"_Thanks. Can I leave Monica here?"_

"_Whatever you wish. I'm rather busy at present, but I'm sure she won't be any trouble."_

_They leave me alone in the kitchen. It is strangely empty, and all the plates on display on the dresser and in the glass-fronted cabinets have a thin film of dust over them, as if they are never used. I get up from my seat and wander over to the refrigerator. It is huge, white and very American, and having never seen one so large, I cannot take my eyes off it. _

_I am about to reach out to open the door, just to see what lies inside, when I hear footsteps. I whisk back to the chair I had been sitting on just in time, as the kitchen door opens and a tall, dark haired young man enters the kitchen._

_He's handsome. Even I, aged twelve and with a studied disdain for boys, can see that. He's handsome and tanned, and wearing jeans and a pale blue shirt. He is halfway across the kitchen when he notices me, sitting frozen at the kitchen table, and starts in surprise. "Who are you?" he asks, and though he's rude it somehow doesn't matter._

"_Monica." He seems even more surprised at my British accent._

"_Are you some relative of Alfred?" he asks, confused._

"_I'm Rachel Dawes' cousin." This really does shock him; he goes pale underneath his tanned skin._

"_Rachel… is she here?"_

"_Yes. Who are you?" I ask, figuring that it may be bad manners, but he's already been just as impolite._

"_I'm Bruce." When I don't respond, he speaks again. "Bruce Wayne? I own this place?"_

"_Oh." And because this seems insufficient, I add, "Rachel mentions you all the time."_

_I don't know where it comes from, but his eyes light up like Christmas. "Really?" he asks, taken aback. "What has she said about me?"_

"_What has who said about you, Bruce?" Rachel is back, an old crystal vase tucked carefully under one arm._

"_Rachel! I was just… I was just talking to your cousin," Bruce says, quickly standing up straight and running a hand through his hair. I look from one to the other, sensing a tension I can only begin to guess at._

"_Really? About what?"_

"_Nothing much. What's that you've got there?" He gestures to the vase._

"_It's one of Mom's, she left it here in storage when we moved out. She's been looking for it everywhere, and I'm so glad it's been safely here all along." Rachel has moved to put the table between herself and Bruce. "So are you off to Princeton in the fall, then?"_

"_I was thinking about taking a year out," Bruce says slowly. "Going off and seeing the world, maybe."_

"_That's nice." My cousin's voice is dead._

"_What about you? I heard about your scholarship for Harvard, congratulations!"_

"_Thanks." Her cheeks are slightly red, but I can tell this is an old question for Rachel. "It should be great. Anyway, we should get going. We've got plans for the day."_

"_Oh, OK… well, it was good to see you. You should come by more often." I can tell that Bruce means it._

_When we are back in the car, the vase is on my lap and Rachel is silent, biting her lower lip as she drives. "Who was he?" I ask, not needing to elaborate._

"_Bruce Wayne. His parents used to own that house; my mom worked for them. They died about ten years ago, and now he owns it."_

"_He seemed nice."_

"_Bruce is… well, he's Bruce. He was a really sweet kid."_

"_Isn't he sweet now?" Something flickers across my cousin's face._

"_He's different to what he was. Hey, hold onto that vase a little better. I don't want it smashed! Now, where do you want to go first? There's a great mall just outside Westhills, or we could go to downtown Gotham, maybe see some sights too…"_

_I look up out of the passenger window at the blue sky, and though I'm listening to Rachel, I'm really thinking about Bruce Wayne. I wish I'd had longer to talk to him, more time to study his face, the expressions on it… _

_I wonder if I shall ever see him again._


	2. The Funeral

**Chapter 1: Funeral**

It hadn't rained this much the last time I had visited Gotham. My feet were soaked, the black patent leather shoes I had hastily bought at a shop near my hotel doing nothing against the puddles on the city pavements. I chided myself immediately for thinking about something so trivial as my own personal comfort. There were bigger things in this world than wet feet, especially on a day like today.

The little church in downtown Gotham was almost completely full, despite the fact that there was still a good quarter of an hour to go until the start of the service. The silence inside the building was total, except for the occasional cough, and I was certain I could hear at least one person quietly crying. It was clear, then, that Rachel's funeral was not going to be a celebration of the deceased's life.

I sat there in the silence, thinking about my memories of my cousin. I had only met her twice, but both times, her joy of life and her spirit had been an incredible presence. The first time I had met her, eleven years previously, had been during the week's holiday I had taken in Gotham with my mother. Rachel had looked after me faultlessly , which was all the more amazing considering it was the summer after she had finished high school, and she probably had dozens of parties and barbecues that she'd missed out on in order to take her little English cousin shopping, to the cinema and to all the tourist traps that Gotham City could provide.

My strongest memory was of how I had worshipped, idolised my elegant, fascinating older cousin, who seemed so grown up and knowledgeable about everything. Whenever I was confused about something, she would just smile faintly and say, "One day, Monica, when you're older, you'll understand. It's not about being smart, it's about experiencing life."

Now, eleven years on, I wondered if she'd been right, because I was sure there was no way that I would ever be as sophisticated, as worldly wise as she was. I was twenty three and still felt like a teenager most days.

The second and final time I had met Rachel had been not long after my sixteenth birthday. Rachel had just finished college, and had come over to England on part of her post-graduation, pre-law school backpacking trip around Europe. She'd stayed four days in our apartment in Primrose Hill, and in that time I learned to see London in a completely new light. We went to all sorts of places I wouldn't have thought of going, but Rachel had done her reading on all the fashionable spots where young Londoners hung out.

And at sixteen, though I still couldn't match up to my stunning American cousin, I felt slightly less awkward and childish hanging out with her. We shared nail polish, gossiped about celebrities and drank skinny lattes together, something which a few years earlier would have been unimaginable. It felt as if in those four days a little of Rachel's mystique had rubbed off onto me, and I clung onto it in the years that followed.

And now she was dead, and what was left of her body was in a polished beech coffin at the front of the church, surrounded by flowers. I shifted a little in my seat, and felt around in my handbag to make sure I had a handkerchief ready. Even if I didn't cry, my mother was sure to; and my aunt, next to her, was already red-eyed. She had cried on seeing me the previous day, partly from shock; apparently I resembled my cousin in looks as well as in my chosen career. Like Rachel, I wanted to be a lawyer, and was due to start my final year of law school in six weeks' time. But saying that I looked like her was a stretch; I wasn't the refined, groomed young lady who had been dating, and some hinted engaged to, the city's handsome District Attorney.

His family were in the pews across the church from us. The Dents were all straight-backed and patrician, and again I felt a little inferior, despite the fact that I was a family member. I checked my watch again. It was five minutes to three. Funerals, unlike weddings, always started on time; and perhaps as the church was full, this one would start early.

As it turned out, the church was not quite full. I heard the door opening at the back, and saw from the corner of my eye that people were craning their heads round to see who was entering. I didn't look around, merely held my mother's hand, helping her support my aunt. And a few moments later the last arrivals at the service shuffled into the end of our pew. I stood up to greet them, and recognised Alfred Pennyworth, the butler from Wayne Manor. His face was considerably older, but still kind and gentle. "You must be Miss Monica," he said quietly. "Goodness me, but you do look like Miss Dawes." I could say nothing to this, just nodded as my throat tightened, and let Alfred shuffle past me to give his condolences to Rachel's mother.

Behind him stood someone else familiar. He was just as tall and dark haired as I remembered; and the once boyish face was older, wearier, but still undeniably handsome. He was looking down at the pew, but lifted his head as Alfred moved past me. He seemed stunned to see me there, and I quickly sought to take control of the situation.

"Hello, Bruce. Do you remember me? I'm Rachel's cousin, Monica; we met one summer… oh, years ago."

"I remember," Bruce whispered hoarsely, but it was obvious he didn't. Slightly embarrassed at the strong reaction I seemed to have induced in him, I sat back down quickly once he had shaken hands with my aunt.

When the funeral began, I looked after my mother, to make sure that she could focus on my aunt. Because of that, I missed a lot of what was said; but I do remember Alfred's brief eulogy for Rachel, given on behalf of her mother.

"I remember the day that Rachel and her mother arrived at Wayne Manor very well indeed. It was a sad time for me, as I'd just lost my wife, and to tell the truth there wasn't much enjoyment in my world." Alfred paused, lost in the recollection, but then composed himself. "Rachel brought light and happiness to everyone and everything she touched. She was a happy, joyful little girl, who grew up to be a beautiful, honest, loyal young woman who will be remembered by all those she knew, because not only did she shine so very, very brightly, but she also gave a little of that brightness to those that she met. I know that I speak for everyone here when I say that hers was a light that was extinguished far too soon. May God rest her soul."

As he stepped down from the pulpit, I looked sideways towards Bruce. He was so grief-stricken that it pained me to look at his face. He wasn't crying; my aunt had been sobbing openly for some time. But there was something about Bruce's silence which gave weight to his sorrow.

I knew instinctively then that he had felt more than mere friendship towards my cousin, and wondered what had passed between them. Had they ever been together, had Rachel reciprocated his feelings, had they been lovers? The minutiae of other peoples' relationships had never fascinated me, but for some reason, whatever Bruce had shared with my cousin attracted me like a magnet.

I thought about it again when we were at the Gotham City Cemetery. A select group of mourners had been invited to the burial, among them Alfred, Bruce and the Dents. As Rachel's coffin was lowered into the ground, many looked away, unable to watch; and I looked at Bruce. He was staring at the coffin as if it were a cross that he himself bore. As the earth showered down, I couldn't help but feel great compassion for Bruce Wayne, who stood and bore the pain he clearly felt. Almost instinctively I wanted to go to him, to put my arms around him and tell him that everything would be alright. Instead I stood there at the grave side, watching the pale wood of the coffin vanish beneath the earth.

As I walked away from the grave with my mother and my aunt, I saw him in the distance, getting into the back of a Rolls Royce, and hoped that somehow I would see him again.


	3. The Wake

**Chapter 2: The Wake**

I got my wish to see Bruce Wayne again far sooner than I had anticipated. We drove away from the cemetery in the black funeral car, and headed towards downtown Gotham. "Aren't we meant to be going to the wake?" I asked my mother in surprise.

"We are. Bruce Wayne has kindly offered to host it." The reply came from my aunt, who had recovered a little. Surprised, I sat back in my seat, and added the discovery to the picture I was painting in my head of Bruce and Rachel.

I was even more surprised when we drew up outside an office block. "Doesn't Bruce Wayne live in that huge old manor?"

"Wayne Manor burned down… oh, about nine, ten months ago. Bruce is rebuilding it, but he's living in the penthouse here at the moment."

We took an express lift up to the penthouse floor. I don't know quite what I was expecting, but the majesty of the place left me momentarily stunned. The view of the Gotham skyline from the floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows contrasted perfectly with the grand chandeliers and marble of the apartment, which I realised after a swift look around occupied the whole of the top floor.

Bruce was there almost immediately, the conscientious host. "Mrs Dawes, thank you for allowing me to host the wake."

"Oh no, I'm the one who should be thanking you, Bruce. There's no way we could have invited so many people if we'd only been able to hold it in my tiny house." Alfred appeared with a drinks tray, and after accepting a glass of champagne, I turned to Bruce.

"Thank you for having us here. This is a beautiful apartment," I said shyly.

"It's my pleasure. I only wish we could be here under more fortunate circumstances." After a final distracted, sad smile in my direction, Bruce turned to greet the Dents who had just arrived behind us.

* * *

It was a long afternoon. After the initial toast to Rachel's life, I found myself drifting around the penthouse. All of Rachel's friends were older than me, in their late twenties or early thirties; they were talking about marriage, and children, and the conversation was sparsely peppered with comments on how sad it was that Rachel would never experience these things. The older generation – my mother, my aunt, Harvey Dent's parents – were grim in their bereavement. I had often heard the saying that no parent should have to bury their child, and now I fully understood why.

Eventually it all became too much, and I slipped away, out of a door leading onto a roof terrace. The rain had stopped some time earlier, and the air was fresh and clean. I gulped down a lungful or two of it, before looking out properly at the view. It was breathtaking – the skyscrapers and spires of Gotham, with the lake beyond it, shimmered in the sunlight that had broken through the clouds. The breeze played with my hair, and for a while I stood there, lost.

"It's a great view, isn't it?" The voice behind startled me out of my daydream, and I turned sharply to see Bruce Wayne standing there, hands in his pockets.

"Yes. It must be great living here."

"It's alright," Bruce shrugged. "But let's just say I'll be happy when they've finished rebuilding Wayne Manor."

"Will it be the same as the old house? It was beautiful, from what I remember."

"Exactly the same. I wouldn't have it any other way."

Silence fell between us, and I looked back out at the view again. "I wish I'd got to know Rachel better," I said quietly. "All the memories I have of her are happy ones."

"She was a very good friend. She always did what was right, and not just what made her happy." Bruce sounded calm, measured; but I wondered yet again how deeply he had felt for my cousin.

"Yes. I always looked up to her when I was younger." I paused for a moment, then added, "Rachel was one of the reasons I applied to law school. I thought that if she could do it, then so could I."

"You're at law school?" Bruce asked, and I nodded.

"Going into my final year. But I don't think I'll be an assistant DA or anything like that; I'd rather work in commercial law." When he said nothing, I asked, "And what do you do?"

Bruce looked surprised at this question. "What do I do? Well, I own Wayne Enterprises. I sit in on board meetings, oversee some deals, joint ventures. And I enjoy life."

"Must be easy," I said without thinking, and he laughed for the first time.

"It is, yes. Too easy, really. My father was a doctor, worked at the General Hospital. Some days I wish I could give back like that."

I was reflecting on his last comment when my mother joined us. "Monica, I'm afraid we should be going. Mr Wayne, thank you for having us here."

"Entirely my pleasure," Bruce nodded. "How much longer are you staying in Gotham?"

"For another week," I replied.

"Well, enjoy your stay. It was a pleasure to meet you again, Monica."

* * *

My mother and I left alone, as we were staying in a hotel in the centre of town. Alfred was going to drive my aunt home at the end of the wake. In the lift on the way down, my mother was very quiet, until suddenly she turned to me. "What did you think of Bruce Wayne, then? You seemed to be getting on well just now."

"He seemed nice enough. Obviously he was devastated by losing Rachel, but…" My mother interrupted me before I could finish my sentence.

"I thought they were just friends?"

"I think there was more to their relationship than either of them would have admitted to," I said diplomatically. "As I was saying, he seemed nice, and generous, though I suppose that being generous is easy for him."

"Yes," my mother agreed, and went off on an entirely different tangent. "It was good to meet Alfred after everything that Kate's said about him. It seems that he was a grandfather figure for so many people…"

I tuned out from what she was saying as we took a taxi back to the hotel. Adrift in my own thoughts as I searched through my clothes for a slightly more cheerful outfit than the one I was wearing, I was jerked sharply back to the real world when the hotel phone started to ring. "Monica? Can you get that?" My mother was in the bathroom, so I grabbed a skirt and blouse from the rail inside the wardrobe and hurried to answer.

"Hello?" I cradled the phone between my ear and shoulder as I removed the clothes from the hangers.

"Phone call for Miss Monica Dawes." I guessed it was one of the receptionists downstairs.

"Speaking," I replied, and there was a brief crackle and a silence before the caller was put through. "Hello, Monica speaking."

"Monica? This is Bruce Wayne."


	4. The Invitation

I was so surprised to hear Bruce's voice on the other end of the phone that I let the receiver fall from where it was clamped between my ear and shoulder. "Shit!" I swore, throwing the clothes I was holding onto the bed and fumbling around on the floor for the phone. "I'm so sorry," I gabbled as I picked it up. "I was trying to do two things at once… can I help you?"

"I hope so." His voice was warm, friendly. "I was calling to ask if you were free tomorrow night; and if you are, if you'd like to go out for dinner with me."

This time, I actually dropped the phone properly in my surprise. "Dammit!" I exclaimed as I scrambled to pick it up again. I could feel my face turning bright red and was exceptionally grateful for the fact that there was no way Bruce could see me. "I'm sorry," I repeated. "I can't believe I just dropped the phone again!"

"Got a firm grip on it now?" Bruce asked, and there was a slight tease to his voice.

"Yes. Erm, dinner. That would be very nice, but can I ask why?" Now that my embarrassment over my malcoordination had subsided somewhat, a rush of curiosity and delight was flowing through me. Bruce Wayne had just asked me to go for dinner with him. Surely this was too good to be true?

"It's really because I'm in need of some assistance. I'm setting up a charitable trust in Rachel's memory. The money from it will go to providing legal assistance for those who don't qualify for free legal aid but are unable to afford a lawyer themselves. It'll also cover a couple of annual scholarships to the Gotham School of Law, Rachel's alma mater."

"Wow. That's incredibly generous of you," I breathed, still slightly bemused as to why this required me having dinner with him.

"It's nothing at all." Bruce was serious. "I've asked Mrs Dawes, and she's very kindly given me permission, but what I would really like is for a family member to be a trustee. Mrs Dawes has declined, and I thought that as Rachel's cousin, and a lawyer yourself…"

"Lawyer in training," I interjected.

"As a lawyer in training," Bruce corrected himself, "I thought that you might be interested in the role. Also, I'd like some input on judging merit for the scholarships."

So it wasn't a date, it was a business dinner of a sort. I didn't know whether I was relieved or disappointed.

"That all sounds great, Bruce. Really. I'd love to have dinner and discuss this, it sounds like a wonderful idea and just what Rachel would have wanted."

"Good," Bruce said warmly. "Shall we say dinner at Les Étoiles tomorrow evening?"

"That's fine." I cast my eyes around the room, looking for the guidebook to Gotham that I'd bought at the airport before leaving England, and hoping that the restaurant was listed there.

"I'll come and pick you up from your hotel at eight. Taxis aren't safe for lone women in this city."

"Thank you. I'll see you tomorrow, then."

The guidebook was on the floor at the foot of the bed. I leafed through it to the Dining section, and hunted through the listings.

_Les Étoiles _

_A veritable French haven in Gotham, which transports one to the sublime and delicate flavours of French cuisine, accompanied by an unparalleled wine list and elegant surroundings. Not one for those on a tight budget – or even a normal budget - but __Les Étoiles__ is a very special journey one should make at least once in a lifetime for its gastronomic delights and excellent service._

I read the entry in the guidebook several times, a smile slowly creeping across my face. It looked as if it would be a thoroughly good dinner, and with pleasant company. Suddenly things were looking up.

By half past seven the next evening, I wasn't so sure. I had nothing appropriate to wear – I hadn't anticipated going out for dinner at any smart restaurants, so I had only jeans, the black skirt I had worn to the funeral, and a summery blue and white striped skirt which was totally inappropriate for evenings. And though this was strictly business, I wanted to look smart, sophisticated in front of Bruce, not like the student I still was.

Eventually, with time seriously running out, I decided just to wear the black skirt and a pale blue blouse. It wasn't particularly sophisticated, but it was smart enough. I didn't bother with much make up, and the only jewellery I put on was a string of pearls which had belonged to my grandmother. Just as I was debating whether to put my hair up or leave it down, the telephone rang. It was the front desk, calling to tell me that Bruce had arrived.

"Calm down," my mother soothed me as I hastily tied my hair up into a knot on the back of my head. "Let him wait a little bit."

"Mum, it's not a date, it's business," I said tersely. "It's rude to keep him waiting."

My mother had been a little surprised about the dinner invitation at first, and then entirely encouraging. My aunt also seemed supportive of my taking the role that Bruce had offered. "I think it's good to have someone younger on this trustee board," she had said firmly. "And I'm certain it's what Rachel would have wanted."

I thought of my cousin as I took the elevator down to the lobby, nerves in the pit of my stomach. Then I scolded myself. I couldn't be embarrassed about this, couldn't make it out to be more than what it was. _Be strong_, I told myself as I stepped out into the lobby.

Bruce was standing there waiting for me. "Hi," I said, a little shy. "Thanks for this."

"Thank you for agreeing to it," Bruce smiled at me. "Shall we? My car's outside."

Bruce's car was quite something: a dark grey Lamborghini. The interiors smelled rich and new; and I asked if it was a recent acquisition.

"Yeah," Bruce replied as we drove through the streets of Gotham. "Well, kind of. This exact car is new, but I had one before this. There was a little… accident." I gazed out of the window as I digested this piece of information. Gotham was different at night, that was certain; almost sinister. I was glad I wasn't outside the car. I knew that Gotham had a high crime rate; and I'd also heard the rumours of the masked vigilante, the Batman, who'd killed several people and was currently being hunted by the police. What kind of person took the law into their own hands like that? After studying law, I understood and fully believed in the rule of law in a civilised society. But was Gotham actually civilised? I only came around from this train of thought as the car drew up outside Les Étoiles, and I shook myself back to reality.


End file.
